


Poison Through My Veins

by angstytimelord



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angstytimelord/pseuds/angstytimelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is the perfect receptacle for Hannibal to pour his poison into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison Through My Veins

Will looked up at Hannibal, his blue eyes wide. The other man's lips curved in a smile; he reached down to cup Will's cheek, then run a gentle hand through his dark curls. Will almost blushed at Hannibal's perusal; he wasn't used to being looked at so .... _appreciatively_.

Especially when he was naked, bound and gagged, and stretched out on a bed.

"Ah, you look unutterably beautiful when you're helpless, William," Hannibal whispered, his hand stroking down Will's chest. "So lovely. So .... submissive."

How could be anything _but_ submissive when it came to Hannibal? Will asked himself. Even if he could have spoken those words aloud, though, he wouldn't have. He knew that Hannibal didn't like for him to speak when they were intimate -- only scream.

Hannibal's hand stroked down his body, making him squirm with impatience. Why didn't his lover get on with it? But no, Hannibal was making him wait, stoking the flames of desire that were starting to rise within him. He always did this, always made Will beg for him.

This time, he couldn't beg, couldn't speak. The gag in his mouth wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but he didn't much care for having his speech cut off.

Still, if this was how Hannibal wanted him, he would deal with it.

Those long, cool fingers were curling around his already half-hard cock; his hips jerked upward, a soft moan coming from his throat. Within seconds, his hips were rocking with the rhythm of Hannibal's movements; he was fully erect, his body already begging for more.

He was already prepped; Hannibal had spent what had felt like hours lubricating him, thrusting those long fingers inside him in imitation of what he would later be doing with his cock. Will had squirmed and struggled, moaning against the gag, needing more than Hannibal was giving him.

He always needed more. He needed everything that Hannibal could give; somehow, nothing was ever enough. He could never get his fill of this man.

Being this needy was almost embarrassing; there were times when he looked at Hannibal and had to look, a blush rising to his cheeks, when he saw that small, knowing smile on his lover's face and knew that Hannibal divined what he was thinking.

He was always thinking about Hannibal, always thinking about their sex life.

Will couldn't get their intimacies out of his mind, even when he was working. Only yesterday, when he was trying to wrap his mind around the motivation behind a killer's actions; a vision of Hannibal inside him, filling him, fucking him, had come into his head.

It had been so strong that he'd gasped aloud; he'd doubled over as though he was in pain, and all of the people around him had tensed, as though they expected him either to topple senseless to the ground, or start writhing in the grip of some kind of seizure.

Hannibal mesmerized him, overwhelmed him, controlled his mind and body to such a degree that he didn't think of himself as his own man any longer.

He didn't belong to himself. He belonged to Hannibal, mind, body and soul. He was a kept man, an _owned_ man. And somehow, he didn't mind that at all; he was comfortable with it. As long as Hannibal was his owner, he would gladly accept his own submission.

This relationship was changing him in ways that he'd never thought being involved with anyone could. It was turning him into someone he didn't know very well; he was discovering things about himself that, not so long ago, would have made him look away in disgust.

Hannibal had the power to change his life completely.

Were those changes for better or worse? He didn't know, and he really didn't care. The only thing that seemed to matter was that they were changes Hannibal wanted to make in him; therefore, they were acceptable. He would let Hannibal do anything he wanted.

That was probably a dangerous attitude to have, considering that he still didn't feel as though he knew this man all that well. But he was helpless to stop himself.

This relationship was unlike anything he'd ever known; he craved Hannibal in a way that he'd never thought it would be possible for him to want anyone. Hannibal was poison through his veins, burning away the old Will Graham, purging him and bringing him back anew.

He was reborn when he was with Hannibal, coming out of a chrysalis that he'd been trapped in for his entire life. This man was turning him into someone stronger, someone who was capable of things that he'd never even let himself consider before.

And he loved it. He loved what Hannibal did to him, what Hannibal made of him.

This was what he had been born for; to belong to this man, to be his toy, his slave, his plaything. He was more than ready to give all that he was to Hannibal, as long as he received this pleasure in exchange for what he gave. He was slave to those sensations, but he didn't care.

When he had stepped into the sticky threads of Hannibal's web, he'd given himself over without realizing it. At first he might have struggled against his destiny, but now the was letting that poison course through his veins and fill him, giving himself over fully to another's desires.

Those desires were his, as well. He wanted whatever Hannibal did, wanted to please the man who owned him, the man who gave him so much of what he needed.

The poison that Hannibal poured into him flowed through his veins, changing him with each time the two of them came together. Will accepted that change; he would accept anything that Hannibal wanted of him, do anything that this man demanded.

He had given up his free will, but he didn't care. As long as he received what he needed from Hannibal, that seemed like a fair trade to him. What was free will when compared with what Hannibal, and only Hannibal, could give him? He needed nothing else.

Those fingers stropped stroking him, those hands pushing his legs up to his chest.

Hannibal bent over him, brushing his lips across Will's cheek. Will wished that Hannibal would remove the gag so he could feel those warm lips on his own, but he knew that it wouldn't happen; Hannibal liked seeing him helpless, liked hearing his muffled cries as he was fucked.

When Hannibal pushed inside him, Will's body arched up to meet that thrust; his arms strained against his bonds, his body desperate to touch Hannibal. But he could do nothing more than lie there and let himself be taken, as Hannibal wished.

He closed his eyes, letting himself simply _feel_ ; the poison was flowing through the veins, the poison that Hannibal injected into his system with every movement of his hips. It was part of him now, that poison that bound the two of them together for an eternity.

He would always be Hannibal's; no one else could own him like this. No one else could give him what this man could; for that reason alone, he would stay by Hannibal's side.

Will knew where he belonged -- and who he belonged to.

This was all he wanted, all he needed; this was what made him complete, this joining with the man he'd given himself over to. Nothing else could satisfy him but this union; he was ruined for all others. No one else existed in his world, no one but Hannibal and what the two of them shared.

This was what he had been meant for; the exquisite poison that Hannibal gave him, the poison that flowed freely through him, would mark him for the rest of his life. He had given himself over to that poison, accepting it freely, even welcoming it.

No one else could give him what Hannibal did. And he didn't want this from anyone else. He would turn away from anyone who even considered trying.

Hannibal was his poison; Hannibal was all he wanted. He had put himself into this position freely, and now that he was firmly ensconced in Hannibal's life -- and in his bed -- he intended to stay here. There was nowhere else that he wanted to be, nothing else that could give him such satisfaction.

He was Hannibal's. And if Hannibal wasn't his as well, then that didn't matter. All that _did_ matter was that he was getting what he wanted, and more than that, what he _needed_. That poison was filling him, infiltrating him, becoming part of him.

He needed that particular poison to live. He needed it to transform him.

It didn't matter what he was turned into. He would be Hannibal's creation, molded from the malleable clay that he became in Hannibal's hands. And as long as Hannibal was happy with what he was, then Will would be satisfied with that.

As he looked up at his lover and their gazes met, he begged silently for that poison to fill him, to be poured into him, for it to bring him to glorious life.

When he came, it was like a revelation of all that he'd ever wanted or ever needed; as that poison poured into him, transforming him and making him even more Hannibal's creation, Will thanked every deity that he could think of for bringing him to this moment in time.

He was Hannibal's, and even if Hannibal wasn't his, it was enough that Hannibal wanted him. The knowledge of being wanted -- and possibly even _needed_ as a vessel for Hannibal's inner poison -- was enough to keep him satisfied.

This was what he had been born for, to be the one who Hannibal chose to give his poison to. Even now, it rushed through his veins, invigorating him, shaping him, forming him.

He was Hannibal's creation. _This_ was his design.


End file.
